


High Dive

by tussock



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tussock/pseuds/tussock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teeny tiny oneshot about what happens sometimes when you're in love with your best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Dive

Patrick loves watching him like this. Pete bounds across the room, a blur equal parts sight and sound, and Patrick follows his movements calmly from where he stands in the doorway. His eyes are lit up with excitement, an edge of manic in them, as he bounces from dresser to closet to shelf to closet to bedside table and back again. His movements are erratic, but purposeful, and Patrick could watch him forever. Pete babbles all the while, sometimes bursting into a line from a song, sometimes asking Patrick’s opinion on this shirt or that jacket, but always upbeat, always positive. 

Patrick remains calm, but helpful, keeps Pete grounded enough to actually make some progress. He eventually moves from his amused perch at the door frame to a comfortable position on the bed. Pete takes advantage of this new location and plops down beside him, all toothy grin and sparkling eyes. His smile is infectious and Patrick smiles, too, happy to see him in such a great mood. Patrick knows how rare these can be. 

Pete changes his mind about outfits faster than Patrick can even form an opinion about one, but he proffers them nonetheless, trying not to be too distracted by the stark tattoos on Pete’s torso every time he replaces one shirt with another. Pete catches his lingering gaze, though, and strikes a pose. 

“Enjoy the view, Pattycakes,” he grins, before barking out a sharp laugh and throwing the most recent reject shirt into Patrick’s lap to be folded. Patrick smiles, eyes soft, and adds it to the growing pile of fabric on his left. Pete is aglow, and Patrick basks in it. 

Eventually, shots are required, (they always are when Pete is in this celebratory mood) and Patrick fills two glasses with the vodka they keep in the freezer. A playlist of Pete’s favorite this-sort-of-an-atmosphere-music has been cranked up, and Pete grabs his shot greedily before tapping it against Patrick’s, cheering “To the best fucking night!”, downing it smoothly. Patrick’s still swallowing when Pete plants a vodka-cold kiss high on his cheekbone and returns to assessing the state of his hair in the bathroom mirror. These are the nights Patrick lives for.

It’s nearly 20 minutes later than they were supposed to leave when Pete throws the front door open with the energy of a child that’s maybe a smidge high and definitely three vodka shots deep. The chilly night air flies in, and Pete turns his blinding smile back to Patrick, who can’t help but appreciate the way the moon backlights him like a halo. 

Patrick hates watching him like this.

Pete throws him a thumbs up and another flash of teeth before turning to the man on the doorstep. He’s not as late as last time, but every minute past the hour Patrick thought of a new way to get away with murder. He’s still watching the space where Pete’s face was when the door closes, and Patrick is alone in the house. 

Patrick pops a bottle of wine and settles on the couch. These are the nights that Patrick is sure are killing him slowly. 

These nights when everything is absolutely perfect, when Pete is his until the moment he’s someone else’s. The nights when he tries over and over to say something, to tell Pete, to scream at him.

Doesn’t he see that these men don’t love him? They’re rude, and late, and forget that he hates Italian food. They pressure him into sex, and make him feel like he did something wrong when they eventually screw him over. They never think to bring him flowers or Pretzel M&M’s like he loves. And for some godforsaken reason he Keeps. Letting. Them. They’re so attractive he doesn’t care, Patrick guesses, or doesn’t know, and every single time Patrick waits up until he falls asleep on the couch because maybe tonight he’ll come home early, or incredibly late, or maybe he’ll come home in the morning. And maybe he’ll tell Patrick everything about how great this guy was or nice he was, he’ll mention all the sweet things he did that aren’t even worth mentioning because they’re not sweet, they’re things everyone should do for Pete. Or he’ll come home crying and he’ll try to dissect what he did wrong while Patrick holds him and tells him a million times that there’s nothing he could ever do wrong.

And Patrick will never work up the courage to say those things. He’ll find ways to say parts of those things, but never the one way to say all of those things at once. He’ll never admit that he’s in love with Pete.

So Patrick pours another glass of wine and waits for the headlights of a car in the driveway to bring Pete home.


End file.
